Starch and Tears
by clamchowder
Summary: Poor Percy. The Dark Lord has risen again, the Ministry is in disarray, and we see him alone and mourning the death of his great and unrequited love. Oh yes, and it's SLASH!


Poor Percy. The Dark Lord has risen again, the Ministry is in disarray, and his great and unrequited love is dead. This is a slash story, but not a very rude one.

I wrote this story partly as a reaction to what I call '_Chicken Soup For The Soul_ Death Stories', where everything is all doom and gloom until a Harbinger of Glurge (usually a beautiful rainbow/soaring bird/inspirational poem/uplifting song/random angel) reminds the surviving character that there is still so much to live for. Ewwww! If you don't know what I mean, you will by the end.

IMPORTANT NOTE FOR NON-UK READERS: In the UK, poppies symbolise the sacrifices made by the servicemen and women who died in wartime. Visit http://www.poppy.org.uk for more details.

**Starch and Tears**

The Cairn Field was not really a field at all, but a small, flattish plain upholstered in tussocky grass. It was dotted with cairns, those conical pyramids of carefully arranged stones that you see throughout Northern Europe. Since the time of the Druids, people have constructed cairns to honour the dead. The older cairns in the Cairn Field are now no more than low hummocks as a stone here, a pebble there, has been taken to construct a new cairn. There are a finite number of stones upon the moor, but the dead increase every day. The custom of cairn-building has been lost to all but a few Muggles, but witches and wizards still honour their dead with cairns.

At six o'clock in the morning, the Cairn Field is a desolate place. There are no signs of life, except perhaps a lonely sheep, or the raw cry of a crow. This morning, however, a human could be seen. A young man squatted before the newest of the cairns, tears streaming down his face. He was neatly dressed in black, and his red hair glowed against his pale skin like a beacon.

'Oh Barty, Barty, Barty,' he sobbed, 'why is everything so wrong?'

The worst day of Percy Weasley's adult life had been a beautiful July day when his mother had come to see him at work. At first he had been embarrassed – he had _so much_ work to do, and besides, what high-flying Ministry of Magic official gets visits from their mother at the office? – but then he had noticed that Mrs Weasley's face was set in a resolute expression that Percy had not seen for thirteen years. She had led him out into the little courtyard where Ministry witches and wizards went to smoke, and in a quiet corner she had grimly told him the news. Barty Crouch was dead, but that was the least of it. His own son had killed him, before helping Lord Voldemort to rise again. Lord Voldemort – Percy remembered how his mother had hesitated before pronouncing the name.

'I'm scared, Barty,' Percy whispered now. 'The Dark Lord has come again. And I remember what it was like before, how it was then…and I'm so scared.'

Percy had not told anyone about the sick dread that had crept into his bones and left him kitten-weak. It was the feeling that always came upon him when he remembered the Dark Time. Percy always been quiet and reserved, not given to discussing emotions, the odd one out in a big noisy family. 'How can I help you when you never _say_ what's wrong?' his mother had often asked him. But he was so terribly ashamed of the weakness and fear that none of the others ever seemed to feel. He had been very young in the Dark Time, so young that nobody had seen fit to explain things, but old enough to put names to nightmares. And of course, the Bad Thing had happened to him but none of the others. The Bad Thing – even as an adult Percy used a child's words for the horrors of long ago.

'Oh Barty,' Percy wept. 'I miss you. I miss you so much.'

Percy remembered Mr Crouch's funeral. It had been a solemn and pompous affair, as befitted a senior Ministry wizard. Percy had sat, lost in misery and uncomfortable in his stiffest, most formal robes, listening to the eulogies. Great wizard had followed great witch to the front and delivered sonorous speeches about Crouch's potent magical powers, his brave lifelong fight against the Dark side, and his tireless labour at the Ministry of Magic. Percy had noticed that the eulogies were strangely cold, for all the honorific epithets. For all the respect, it seemed that nobody had loved Crouch. With tears pouring down his cheeks, Percy had buried his face in his hands, hoping that everyone would think he was praying. Percy had long ago mastered the useful art of crying silently.

The cairn of Barty Crouch had stood in the Cairn Field for two months now, and Percy had never seen anyone standing before it. Sometimes, though, a drooping bunch of flowers lay in front of it. Daisies or dandelions usually, though once there had been some browning carnations, and once an actual (although very battered) funeral wreath, incongruously shaped like a teddy bear.

'Everything's wrong, Barty,' Percy sobbed. 'Nothing fits together any more. We need you, Barty. The Ministry's falling to pieces, and it's even worse at home.'

It was true. The Ministry of Magic was in disarray. The witches and wizards who worked there were split into three factions. There were those, like Cornelius Fudge, who categorically denied that Voldemort had returned and expended all efforts in trying to stamp out the so-called rumours. A second group, led by Arthur Weasley, believed that Lord Voldemort had indeed returned and spent long hours in meetings after work, usually at the Burrow. The third, and quietest group consisted of those witches and wizards who had once supported Voldemort. The erstwhile Death Eaters had so far kept a low profile, but Percy had observed that they now had a tendency to arrive at work late and leave early – and spoke only to each other. Only the other day, Percy had come across Lucius Malfoy talking furtively with Nott and Goyle in the canteen. They had fallen silent when Percy approached, but he had noticed that they were all wearing long-sleeved robes, although it was a very hot day.

At home, Percy was no longer able to lose himself in his books. Fred and George were working harder than ever on their asinine Wizard Wheezes, so loud bangs and horrible smells were a fact of life at the Burrow. After a nasty experience with an Exploding Quill, Percy now treated all objects in the house with extreme suspicion. Harry and Hermione were also staying at the house, although Percy found them much less annoying than the twins. Hermione in particular had a habit of disappearing with Ginny for hours on end on mysterious errands, returning in the evening pink-faced and giggling. The Burrow was continually full of people, trooping in and out at all hours. Hatchet-faced Ministry witches, crazy old warlocks like Mundungus Fletcher, Remus Lupin (who Percy remembered from his final year at school) and even Dumbledore himself, a number of times. Of course, Percy was proud that his parents were so important to the New Dark Resistance, but last Tuesday he had come home late after another gruelling day at the Ministry and almost wept with frustration and rage to find that his immaculate book-lined room had been commandeered yet again for a strategy meeting. Even worse, there had been a wine stain on the carpet, and his jar of Every Flavour Beans had been decimated. 

There was nowhere in the house for poor Percy to get any peace. 

'You didn't know this, Barty,' Percy wept. 'But I was in love with you. You were so strong, despite all that happened to you. Your son went over to the Dark side and betrayed you, your wife died hating you because you did what you thought was right. I wanted to be all the family and friends you needed.' Percy swallowed hard. He had never confessed this out loud before.

'Oh Gods Barty, I loved you so much. In the office as I wrote reports, you were never away from my mind. I knew every crease in your forehead and every freckle on your arm. Do you remember when you lost that albatross-feather quill? It was me who stole that, so that when I was alone I could hold something you had touched. Whenever I made you tea I would blow kisses into the cup for you. I would bury my face in your cloak when I put it away for you, to inhale your scent. If I close my eyes, I can smell it now.' Percy sniffled and continued.

'I just wanted to love you, Barty. You never had enough love. I wanted to give you hot bubble baths after long days at the office. I wanted to kiss your beautiful body all over, and smooth all the worry lines away. I wanted to hold you in my arms and just for a moment, make you a world with no Ministry or deadlines or reports or dead wife or evil son. I knew how you would taste, Barty. Man-taste, bitter aniseed, like starch and tears. In the endless nights when I thought of you, I knew that taste. I would suck it from my own fingers and imagine that I was tasting you instead of myself.' Percy shook his head, the shame of the past mingling painfully with the sorrow of the present.

'And now you're dead – your son killed you, your own son!' howled Percy. 'You're dead now, and I loved you so much. I loved you so much – and to think that you never – even – knew – my – fucking – _name_.' Percy spat the words out. This was no longer pure sorrow; it was regret, bitterness and fury.

'I slaved for you, Barty. I worked my heart out for you. I worked twenty-hour days in that office sometimes. I'd stop up all night working on a report so that I could hand it to you first thing in the morning, so that you'd nod and maybe even smile at me. You barely even noticed that I was there. You'd call for tea and not touch it. I'd slog my guts out and you'd never even acknowledge me. Everyone else at the Ministry did. I always knew what they called me behind my back. Perfect Percy, Barty's Bumsucker. But I only cared what you thought. I adored you, Barty. I idolised you and you never even noticed. All I ever wanted to hear were three little words: _Well done, Percy._ And now you're gone and there's nothing left for me. I can't think about anything else except you – a dead man who never even took the time to learn my name.'

Percy paused, and as he did so he heard a raspy sound, like the breathing of a small creature. He sprang to his feet and turned around, ashamed and angry at being disturbed in such a private moment. A little figure stood in the Cairn Field watching him. It had long, pointed ears and a bulbous nose, and it carried a bunch of pansies that had clearly seen better days. Percy presumed that the creature was female, for it was wearing a neat black dress with a little matching hat. A house-elf. She stared at Percy, then at Barty Crouch's cairn, and then at Percy again, in what seemed to be amazement, before addressing Percy in a tiny, quavering voice.

'Is you…is you here to see Mr Crouch?'

Percy nodded. Immediately the little elf dropped her flowers, ran over to him and gripped him around the knees in a tight embrace, emitting ear-splitting wails.

'Oh dear…poor master…poor dead master…nobody is ever coming to see him except Winky…Winky is thinking nobody else cared about her master…but you is coming to see him too…oh poor master…oh dear…'

Percy had always been uncomfortable around displays of emotion. He bent down and carefully disentangled Winky. Squatting on the ground, he sat her on his knee and awkwardly patted her heaving shoulders, wondering what the etiquette was for comforting a distressed house-elf.

'There, there…don't cry now…c'mon, it's OK…' he said. Percy was just thinking that he was really in no position to be telling anyone not to cry when he noticed a copious trickle of mucus running from the elf's nose in the direction of his trousers.

'Hang on, I've got a hanky somewhere…' Percy hurriedly fumbled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and passed it to Winky. 'Blow.'

The house-elf blew her nose wetly and looked up at Percy.

'You is _really_ coming here to see Mr Crouch?' she asked suspiciously.

'Yes,' Percy said simply. Winky's large eyes filled with tears again.

'He was Winky's master,' she said sadly. 'Winky worked for him and…' Winky broke off and her eyes suddenly brightened with recognition.

'I knows you! I is seeing you before! You is working with master! Surely you is Mr Weatherby!'

'Pretty much,' said Percy with a wry grin.

'And I is seeing you at the Quidditch World Cup! Winky did not have a happy time then! Such a bad day Winky never had, sir…' Winky shuddered.

'I remember. Look, Winky, I'm really sorry about what happened…'

'Master is giving Winky the sack because she could not stop Master Barty, sir. Winky is having to wear clothes and get a new job. But Winky is not happy. Winky is crying and missing her old master and sometimes…' – Winky hung her head in shame – '…Winky is drinking too much.'

'I'm sorry.'

'But things is better now, sir. Winky is not drinking any more.' Winky puffed out her little chest with pride. 'No, I is not drinking any more. I is working in Hogwarts kitchen, and I is making friends. I is even getting wages and holidays! Winky likes being free now!'

'Well that's…that's great, Winky.' Percy managed a smile. Winky's face clouded over, and her eyes filled with tears again.

'But Winky would rather have her master alive again. Poor master! Master Barty killed him! He killed his own father who is saving him from prison long ago! How could he? Winky is looking after Master Barty when he is a baby, sir! Why is Master Barty becoming such a bad man? Master Barty is such a nice boy, Mr Weatherby. He is clever and handsome and funny, so why is he growing into a bad man and doing such terrible things?'

Percy shook his head. 'I don't know.'

'Poor master,' Winky wailed. 'Poor dead master. I is coming here on all my days off, but nobody is ever coming to see master's cairn, and nobody is ever leaving flowers here. Winky is thinking that there is nobody who cares about her poor master. Winky is very sad because everyone has forgotten him. But then, I is coming here and I see you! Is you missing my master too?'

'Yes, I miss him. All the time.'

'Master is talking about you when he is getting home from work,' Winky confided. She wrinkled her brow in an effort to remember. 'Master is always saying how hard you is working. He is saying: Young Weatherby is a good lad. He could go far. Master is saying: Young Weatherby's father should be very proud.'

Percy said nothing, and his face did not betray his emotions. Winky continued.

'He is saying that, sir, and then he is looking out of the window and being very sad. I think he is thinking of Master Barty when he is doing that.' More tears came into Winky's eyes at the memory.

'Anyway, I is going to put my flowers by his stones.' Winky picked up the bedraggled pansies and carefully placed them at the foot of the cairn.

'I brought some flowers too, Winky.' From a paper bag marked _Greenfingers Wizarding Garden Centre_, Percy carefully withdrew a small potted plant with beautiful black-centred red flowers. '_Excavatio!_' he said, pointing his wand at the ground. Immediately, a small hole appeared in the earth. Percy settled the roots of the plant in the hole, covered them with earth, and using the _Irrigatus_ charm he gently watered the plant.

'What flower is that, Mr Weatherby?'

'It's a poppy. Muggles use poppies to remember brave soldiers who died in wars.'

'Master was brave.'

'Yes, Winky. He was very brave. He made a terrible mistake, but he died trying to put it right again.' Percy watched Winky arrange her pansies, and felt a sudden kinship with the little elf. She looked up at him.

'Mr Weatherby, sir?'

'Yes?'

'Master's dead – but _we_ isn't. And _he_ isn't either.'

'Who?'

'The Dark Lord. You-Know-Who. He is come alive again.'

'Yes, Winky.' Percy spoke heavily.

'We is all having to fight him, Mr Weatherby. House-elves is not strong, but we is having good wizards like Professor Dumbledore and Harry Potter and Mr Weatherby, so we is going to beat the Dark Lord for good!' Winky hugged Percy round the knees and beamed up at him. Percy returned the smile; he was becoming quite fond of her.

'Winky?'

'Yes, sir?'

'What are you doing now? Would you like to go for a drink? My house isn't too far from here – we could have tea or something.'

Winky frowned.

'Mr Weatherby is very kind to be giving Winky such an honour…but Winky is promising Dobby that she will meet him for hot chocolate today. I hope you isn't offended?'

Percy grinned, and his eyes twinkled in a most unPercyish way.

'No, not at all – of course you should go and see your boy-friend.'

Winky blushed to the tips of her pointed ears.

'House-elves is not having boy-friends, sir! Dobby is Winky's oldest, bestest friend! He is finding Winky a job at Hogwarts and helping her stop drinking, but he is not a _boy-friend_!' Winky suddenly noticed Percy's twinkling eyes.

'You is _joking_ with Winky? Like an _equal_?' When Percy nodded, Winky jumped high into the air and hugged him around the waist.

'You is a great, great wizard, Mr Weatherby, sir! But Winky must be going now!'

Winky curtseyed low to Percy, and then disappeared with a loud crack.

The sudden silence echoed in the Cairn Field, and Percy felt even more alone than he had before Winky had come. In Percy's mind, Winky's words echoed again and again: 'Master's dead – but _we_ isn't. And _he_ isn't either.' Something turned over in Percy's stomach, and dissolved into burning white-hot fury.

'And that's it?' Percy raged. 'I'm supposed to take _comfort_ from it, am I? The man I adored was subjugated and murdered, the most evil wizard who ever lived has returned, my family's worst enemy has been restored to his favour, my Ministry – the work I love – is falling apart, and I should be _happy_ about it?! Ten minutes after his resurrection, the Dark Lord invokes my father by _name_! We are facing a man so evil that fourteen years on people tremble at his mere _memory_ and that's supposed to bring me _joy_ and _fluffy bunny feelings inside_?!?'

Percy remembered a television programme that he had once seen on a Muggle Studies field trip. _Jerry Summer_? _Jerry Slimmer_? No, _Jerry Springer_, that was the name. The guests (who obviously didn't have mothers like Mrs Weasley) argued with each other and screamed obscenities, and even threw punches. Percy had watched in fascination as a large bleached-blonde woman in an orange dress took a swing at a loud black woman with an extremely complicated hairdo, noticing as he watched that the security guards were very slow to break up the fight. At the end of the programme, Jerry Springer himself had come on and calmly said some things about how it was very important for people to respect each other's differences and always listen to both sides of the argument before jumping to conclusions. Which was good advice, except that it had nothing to do with the preceding programme, where everyone hated everyone else just as much at the end as at the beginning. Half an hour of lies and fighting and betrayal and crying, with a thirty-second uplifting moral tacked on at the end as an afterthought. 'Until next time, take care of yourselves – and each other.'

_But here in the Cairn Field there is no happy ending_, Percy told himself. _Not even a fake happy ending_. The white-hot fury that had filled his belly left as quickly as it came, leaving only an aching desolation that forced itself out through his eyes as he crouched in front of Barty's cairn.

'Oh Barty, everything is so wrong, so wrong…'

Percy's shoulders shook, racked with sobs. He looked down at his thighs to see neat dark patches, soft circles on his immaculately creased trousers.

Tears and starch. Starch and tears. Percy felt as if he was made of nothing else.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

By the way, the geography in this story does follow canon.  JK Rowling has said that the fictional village of Ottery St Catchpole is in Devon.  (Which makes perfect sense, as there is a real village called Ottery St Mary in Devon.)  Dartmoor (also in my beloved home county of Devon) is full of cairns, which people still sometimes build in memory of the dead.

I rather liked the starch-and-tears metaphor (the stuff _does_ taste like that) so I hope I didn't put you off your dinner.

Use your imagination as to what the Bad Thing was.  (Or read 'Where Do The Children Play?' by Cairnsy.)  The same applies to the mysterious missions of Hermione and Ginny.

Oh Gods, writing house-elf dialogue doesn't half give you a headache!  It's worse than Hagrid dialogue!!

If there's anyone out there who can draw Percy, I would dearly love a piece of fan art for this story. Especially if it's got Winky in it. I can barter with you – one poem (subject of your choice) in exchange for one picture.

Do put something in the little box, I love to get reviews.


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